


Shades of Life

by ceceliatarleton



Series: Crowe Week 2019 [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Crowe Week 2019, Gen, Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV (2016), canon character death, crowe deserves better than this fic, implied/referenced prostition, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 19:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18555859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceceliatarleton/pseuds/ceceliatarleton
Summary: The story of the too short life of Crowe Altius told through memories in shades of orange.Crowe Week Day 1 Prompt: Orange (Passing mention to late nights/early mornings too)





	Shades of Life

**Author's Note:**

> Written way too quickly on the spur of the moment even though I have only the most tenuous grasp on Kingsglaive and its characters, and posted before I thought better of, because Crowe deserves better and part of that better is all the fics for Crowe week. If I got something wrong/contradicted canon accidentally while thinking canon doesn't say enough, yell at me. If you like it, yell at me in a more positive way.

**Marmalade**

 

It would be Crowe's first memory (first clear and complete memory that lasted to adulthood at least, not part of hazy-edged montages of flickering images--arms reaching down to pick her out of a crib, a blue blanket, throwing up on her second birthday because of too much cake, the stuffed chocobo she'd gotten on her third birthday that had found its way to being tossed into the fire within a month). She was spreading marmalade on bread very carefully, her focus so intent that light, sunny orange blobs of sweetness being smeared by a knife gripped like a  sword in a small closed fist filled her whole field of vision. She had to do it right. It was her job now. Mom hadn't eaten in three days. Crowe had only had half a jar of peanut butter herself but she had gotten out of bed. Mom hadn't. Crowe had dressed herself too, though she'd gotten peanut butter on her shirt and her shoes.

 

"Made toast," She carried the dish she'd prepared over to the bed clutched in her bare hands and laid it down carefully on the edge of the comforter nearest to her mother's head. There weren't any clean plates. Her mother rolled over, turning her back on Crowe and the food she'd brought. Crowe thought it was probably because she forgot to make the toast toasted. She wasn't exactly sure how to make the bread stiff and brown, but she was sure she could figure it out next time.

 

"Don't need Dad." He left. Crowe's mother would say he died, later, because she was embarrassed--over not being able to make him stay not because she left a daughter only a few years old to fend for herself while she shut down after. Crowe would hear it so often she believed it after awhile and only started to remember the truth when she was grown, but, when it happened, she had understood much more than anyone gave her credit for. "I make toast." She would learn at least. She patted her mother's shoulder, leaving a sticky stain. "We don't need anyone."

 

**Tangerine**

 

"You look like a princess," Crowe murmured, eyes wide and voice awed as she watched as her mother twirled and the full skirt of the silky, pale orange dress she wore flew out around her and then settled back to cling to her  legs--too thin, almost skin on bone, covered in scratches and bug bites, but long and graceful like a dancer when she moved.

 

"You  think so, baby?" Rae Altius beamed at her daughter and it made her dark eyes shine. She looked so hopeful, so free in those moments, almost shy as she ducked her head and  curled a lock of the dark hair her daughter had inherited from her around her finger (Hair that was not as lustrous as it had once been even in Crowe's short memory. Hair that was found on the floor or left behind on a pillow so often Crowe had already started collecting it and stuffing it into a little sack to make what she would call, giggling as she did so, her mommy pillow. Crowe would beat herself up for years, wondering how she missed the signs, how she didn't know something was wrong, how she couldn't stop it. She should have gotten her to a doctor. Being six wasn't an excuse).

 

Crowe nodded reverently. "You're so fancy," she breathed, still overcome by the way the light caught the fabric of the dress and how soft and rich the material was. For a moment, Crowe's goal in life was to wear a fancy dress just like the one he mother wore now with jewels sewn to the bodice that matched combs that swept her hair up and a twirly skirt that skimmed tall shoes. The dream was quickly dashed though as soon as her Uncle Jai's gruff voice chimed in from the corner where he stood scowling, arms crossed.

"Kid's wrong. The orange is too bright. You look like Ifrit's fiery ass," Uncle Jai--not her real Uncle, Crowe knew it but knew not to ask why he mother wanted him to call him that after the first time she had made Mommy look so sad--growled and Crowe would have corrected him to say that her mommy looked perfect if he had left a long enough pause before continuing, "But that's what he sent, that's what he wanted you in, and I'm not going to argue with the gil. Maybe he wants you to look like Ifrit so you know where you are going to be spending your eternity." He'd crossed over the floor, covering the room in two long strides then, cording his fingers through Mommy's hair then, almost dislodging the comb as he roughly tipped her head back. He looked fierce then, teeth bared and eyes showing a manic and cruel gleam when he'd only looked bored a moment before and all through watching Mommy get dressed and fix her hair and makeup. An uncle wouldn't have watched Mommy dress. Crowe knew it was all wrong, the way he looked at Mommy all the time if he was an uncle, but she couldn't give a voice to the sick-bad feeling in her stomach and she didn't want Mommy to be sad when she had been happy all day about going to some fancy party tonight--with a prince, she'd said, even if she'd been careful to correct he wasn't a real prince. A story prince though, Crowe surmised, and maybe he would rescue Mommy and her and strike down Uncle Jai with a sword. It wasn't a kind thought, but Crowe knew Uncle Jai wasn't a kind man like he wasn't her uncle.

 

If the prince didn't, maybe she could strike Uncle Jai down with a sword when she got bigger, big enough so he couldn't swat her away like he did then, barely looking as he delivered the backhand that sent her into the wall after she ran at him, head lowered  for the only weapon in her arsenal, the fierce headbutt, to stop him hurting Mommy and messing up her hair, as he looked at both of them like a coeurl about to rip their throats out.

 

Crowe's mother cried out when Crowe hit the wall like she hadn't when she had been grabbed herself (Crowe would have said not to worry; it didn't hurt much. She had a hard head, that was why the headbutt was her weapon in the first place, and Uncle Jai had hit her worse before, though she wasn't supposed to tell Mommy that) and Uncle Jai softened, though he didn't look kinder for it. He kissed Rae's forehead and Crowe growled again, though she was paid no mind. "I'm sorry, baby."  Uncle Jai's arms left Rae's hair, hands shaking off strands that had come loose onto the floor, and wrapped around Rae's waist. They swayed together like they were dancing, and it looked friendly but Crowe couldn't help but still be on edge. "You're making us money. You're the one keeping us off the street, and here I am getting all jealous."

 

Crowe was forgotten on the sidelines now. Her mother hadn't even checked to see if she was unhurt after all, and she'd stopped looking mad and scared. She was smiling her soft, glowy smile for Uncle Jai and cooing reassuring words at him now, telling him how he'd saved her, reminding him that she and Crowe had been on the street until he found her and let her and her daughter into his home.

 

Crowe had liked the street better, but nobody asked her.

 

Crowe stopped listening until she realized Uncle Jai was looking at her with his unkind eyes and smiling a yellow almost orange smile at her that made the bad-wrong feeling flip in her stomach again. "Won't be too many years before we can fix you up all pretty and you can do your part too," he suggested and it sounded taunting. Rae told him to stop, and she sounded serious, but there was an indulgent smile on her lips that muddled everything.

 

Crowe shook her head violently, not really understanding what she was disagreeing with, just sure she didn't want whatever Uncle Jai wanted for her. She didn't want the soft tangerine dress anymore and she didn't want to be pretty--not even if she could meet a prince like her Mommy because the prince could be Uncle Jai and then the next prince worse not better. She would be her own prince. Now she was sure. She didn't need anyone.

 

**Salamander**

 

Crowe could feel the flush on her face and the way her skin stretched tight. Her lips were breaking open too where they had been chapped but bearably so previously. She couldn’t bring herself to turn away from the fire or even back up an inch. She flexed her hands, already reached out toward the dancing, entrancing orange flames, stretching her fingers maybe a centimeter closer. She’d been so cold for so long she could still feel it in her bones--though maybe the shivering now was more a reflex to the sudden influx of heat. Crowe would bake before she backed away though. 

 

It had been raining for days and everything too wet to start a fire for days after that. She’d thought she’d constructed her house well, but the shelter still leaked and stuff got drenched from drips no matter where she moved them. It shouldn’t have been that way, though the unfairness and frustration of it had kept her heated enough not to freeze.

 

It still shouldn’t have been that way. She’d listened to everything Magda had told her--except when Magda told her to make up with Rocko and go back to the warehouse his gang stayed in. Magda didn’t understand. She wouldn’t have suggested Crowe go back if she knew why Crowe had left, what Rocko had suggested when it became clear Crowe wasn’t a good enough pickpocket to bring in her share. 

 

She’d be fine. She’d make a better shelter. She didn’t need Rocko for that or for protection. She’d been watching out for herself for half her life, ever since her mother had died and she left Jai’s house out her bedroom window in the night before he could give her away or sell her. He’d threatened the former, told her it was going to be an orphanage (He’d said he wasn’t the fatherly type, that much they agreed on); the latter had been a fear she’d drawn up in her own mind, but she really wouldn’t put it past him. She’d been on her own much longer than that even, if she felt like admitting it. She didn’t need anyone. She just needed the salamander orange flames of the fire right now.

 

A hand grabbed her shoulder from behind and she struck back with an elbow angled for gut or groin and the quick stomp of a foot behind her. Elbow missed but foot made comment and got a howl and the hand recoiling from her shoulder even though she had felt what seemed like a large, thick boot. Pansy. 

 

“I’ve got a knife!” she screamed for good measure even as her brain and body froze between whether to keep hitting or run.

 

“Easy kid,” a man’s voice rumbled, almost sounding amused, stretching the three syllables into at least twice that. Crowe turned to see her attacker, a tallish man--tall compared to a gangly young teen at least-- with a round face and long brown hair in a ponytail almost as messy as hers. He held his hands up placatingly. “No need for a knife. Didn’t mean to scare ya. Wanted to ask if you were lost and needed help getting out of the neighborhood. Not a good place for a kid, not this late.”

 

“I’m not a kid,” Crowe shot back automatically, eyeing the man warily and planning an exit strategy if she had to run, as she was blocked between the man and the fire. “You always grab people without so much as hello?” She lifted her chin defiantly, as if to say she was on to him.

 

The man chuckled, lowering his hands slowly so she could see every bit of movement and wiping them on his pantlegs before holding one out to her just as slowly. “That was my mistake. Hello, name’s Libertus Ostium. You lost, miss?”

 

She didn’t take the hand. “No. Go away.”

 

“Okay, Okay,” the hand dropped and another chuckle came. He didn’t show any sign of turning away or backing up. “Do you need help home?”

 

“I am…” She knew she had made a mistake when she saw the almost comic shock of realization flicker on the man’s face and she tried to correct. “No! Go away!” She balled her fists as her voice rose again and stretched into a wordless whine that caused the man that wouldn’t go away to chuckle again, though it was more of the helpless, nervous kind as he still looked unsettled at the idea the alley and the fire in the trash can  might be her home. “Stop laughing at me. Your voice is annoying.” She gritted her teeth, wanting to lash out or--Six forbid--cry, still feeling cornered even though this Libertus didn’t seem like a threat and she could and had dealt with more formidable even if he turned.

 

He frowned at that, eyes turning puppy-like. Stupid for a grown man to have such easily bruised feelings. “Can’t help the voice I was born with. Don’t be unkind. You know,” he injected a pause and a thoughtful look that looked acted and made Crowe suspicious again, “My buddy is coming over for dinner at my house and he’s bringing his little sister. It would help the dinner party if I had a sister of my own about her age to keep her company. Someone to fill in for a sister of my own, I mean. I don’t got one.”

 

“Are you inviting me to your house?” she was so incredulous the fear was receding.

 

Libertus rubbed the back of his head with a hand. “Yeah,” he grudgingly admitted. “Sounds creepy that way.”

 

“What way wouldn’t it sound creepy?” her hands were on her hips now.

 

“The way where you don’t stick me with your knife and forget what I said and I ask instead if I can bring you leftovers. I make a lot of food. There’ll be leftovers.”

 

“Why would you do that?”

 

“Why wouldn’t I?”

 

“I don’t need a hand-out.”

 

She didn’t need anyone.

 

“Well, if you’d rather me ‘ave to throw it out…”

 

“....I’ll take it if you’re going to waste it.”

 

**Tiger**

 

Fire from her hand--powered by the man attached to the gloves that hovered above and below her own hands, but powered by her too and floating just above her cupped palms--was a different color than any fire she’d made with wood or newspaper. It had an extra intensity, the shade of magic that could and would change her life.

 

“I knew she’d have a gift if you tested her.” Libertus couldn’t have sounded prouder. Crowe would have scowled at him and told him her talent wasn’t his victory, but over the past eighteen months he’d grown on her enough-- broke her down enough through constant kindness and proved he wanted nothing in return until she found herself half living at his house, coming and going like some stray cat he’d decided was his pet and lured in with food but couldn’t completely tame and contain--  that instincts blurred and she went a bit pink as if the compliment to her had been more direct.

 

Magic. She could do magic. It was a fantasy.

 

“Does she know any self-defense? We’ll take the young but we don’t take children,” the man with the gloves--Glaive if she remembered the introduction--spoke to Libertus not her.

 

“She does and she can speak for herself,” Crowe snapped with less bite than she might have otherwise, part due to riding the high of doing magic still, part holding back because she wanted to join Lib and Nyx taking up the offer made by Glaive on behalf of King Regis more than anything she had ever wanted.

 

She wanted to fight, to avenge Galahd.

 

She wanted a future.

 

She wanted to be taught how to be deadly not just scrappy.

 

She wanted to stay with Lib. She didn’t need it, but she wanted it.

 

“Then why don’t you show me what you got.

 

**Papaya**

 

The training mats had been dark orange once, but age had turned them sickly and pale. Peach or papaya mats and yet Crowe was the one that bruised like overripe fruit every time she was thrown down, which still happened too often even a year into training. She was one of the smallest and youngest but she was supposed to be a prodigy like Cor Leonis. So far, she was no Cor Leonis. She’d prove herself in time though, even if it took a thousand more tumbles into papaya to learn how not to get hit.

 

**Vermilion**

 

Nyx had called the lining of her cape scarlet, but it was technically deep red-orange. Vermilion. She’d been teased for not being seen in civilian clothes even when off duty in the month since she’d gotten the uniform that marked her as a full member of the Kingsglaive mages, but the gentle weight of the cape on her shoulders and the hug of her bodysuit filled her with too much pride and the almost forgotten feeling of genuine, simple happiness to give up just yet. At least she’d assured Nyx she didn’t shower in uniform.

 

It wasn’t a tangerine princess dress. Vermilion was so much better.

 

She was the prince savior of herself she’d wanted to be.

 

**Pumpkin**

 

“It’s your favorite.” Lib was so sure of himself as he set the bowl of soup before her.

 

Crowe lifted a thin, dully orange spoonful to eye-level and then let it drip back into the bowl.”According to who?” 

 

Lib opened and shut his mouth without making a sound then huffed. “Try it. I’ve seen you inhale field rations. My cooking ain’t that bad compared to that.”

 

“What is it?” she pressed, scooping up more glob and then dumping back to the bowl once more, still playing like she was five and not twenty. “What’s wrong with Yamachang’s?”

 

“It’s your birthday. I was trying to have a family dinner.”

 

Crowe bit her tongue before telling Lib he wasn’t her family. He opened his mouth to retort before realizing she hadn’t said anything then shut it again with a truly nauseating smile taking over. The resulting warm aura and companionable silence made Crowe regret holding herself back.

 

“Is there cake at least?”

 

**Sunset/ Sunrise**

 

Nighttime vigils over the years--on duty and off times just sitting up all night and talking from dusk to dawn-- made up a lot of memories, all blurred together like years long past instead of recent. Crowe wouldn’t be able to pick out one from another, but wouldn’t trade a single one. None of them had been alone 

 

Lib. Nyx. Pelna. Luche

 

She still didn’t need other people, but maybe they were nice, and sure she had saved herself, but maybe there were princes too.

 

**Rust**

 

They say your life flashes before your eyes before you die. Staring at livid orange rust on a creaking metal fence long away from anywhere she should be, surrounded by a pool of her own blood, Crowe saw it all, passing too fast, especially the good parts that seemed to linger less than the early bad. There should have been more than this, but then her life never had been fair.

 


End file.
